


scrapbook

by tigriswolf



Series: comment_fic drabbles [170]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Codependency, Cynicism, F/M, Gen, Genocide, Identity Issues, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, M/M, Old Age, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Regret, Secret Identity, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have so many Highlander drabbles and now most of them will be collected here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the slow waking of sleeping giants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the slow waking of sleeping giants  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: future!fic; mentions of destruction  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 180  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, a friendship so strong that when one is seriously hurt/in danger, the other completely loses it

They take Joe. Adam Pierson closes his eyes, breathes slowly and deeply, burying anything but an academic, new-to-everything reaction, and turns to Duncan. "What happened?" he demands, panic in his voice. 

Joe's bar is burning. Joe himself is missing. 

They're being watched and Duncan, bless his heart, actually catches on in time to not give Adam away.

"We have to get out of here," Duncan says - because he has a student to protect. A child barely half a decade into The Game.

So their enemies think, whoever took Joe.

As Duncan drives away, Adam looks back. The sight sears into Methos' memory and a deathknell plays. The sacking of Troy, Alexandria's library, the fire of London... 

"What do we do?" Duncan asks, now that the eyes are off of them.

"We find Joe," Methos says. His hand itches for a sword, his thighs for a horse to cling to, his soul for his brothers beside him, riding across the plains, out of the sun and into their enemies. 

"We find Joe," he repeats, "and you leave the rest to me."


	2. love like a knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: love like a knife  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: references to violence  
> Pairings: Kronos/Methos  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 200  
> Point of view: third   
> Prompt: Any, Any, Our love is like a knife, it cuts both ways

"Brother," Kronos proclaims once, standing on a battlefield, "the world is ours. What would you have me do with it?" 

Methos laughs, glancing toward the endless horizon, already knowing that Kronos' ambition would be the death of him. "You are a god, Brother," he says, carefully keeping his tone awed instead of mocking. "Do with the world what you will." 

Kronos smiles, as ever sure of their eventual conquest, and goes to order Caspian and Silas to begin counting their spoils. 

Methos watches, already knowing how it will end, because even if he does want Kronos, to possess and control him, to have all of his attention—he wants to live far more. 

(In more millennia than even he could've counted, once, Methos watches Kronos pace around as he plots, and he thinks, _oh, Brother, I let you live once._

He still wants Kronos, will always want Kronos. To have the weight of his attention, to have the fire at his beck and call. But fire burns and Methos is not young anymore, to dare think Kronos' ambition can be managed. 

_I let you live once,_ , he thinks, and he knows that Kronos has ever misunderstood just what that meant.)


	3. to love and be loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: to love and be loved  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: references to violence  
> Pairings: Methos/Kronos, Methos/Alexa  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 445  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any. any. _This is the way you left me, I'm not pretending. No hope, no love, no glory, No Happy Ending. This is the way that we love, Like it's forever. Then live the rest of our life, But not together_. (Happy Endings – Mika)

Methos loves each of his lovers like it is the last time he'll ever feel this way. He gives each of them a full life -- _all_ of that life. Each of them is the whole world... until they die and he moves on. 

Always, he moves on. 

None of his lovers are immortal, for therein lies a future calamity. 

Immortality is a gift; he sees scores of young ones who do not understand. Immortality is the chance to learn and to grow, to evolve into something better. There are many things he teaches his students and the second lesson is to never love an immortal. (The first, of course, is survival above all else.) 

But once in all his years has Methos made the mistake of giving himself to another immortal. They loved fiercely, dangerously – and when Methos saw the long years of eternity stretching before them, he made a choice that is not among his countless regrets. 

Methos trapped his brother instead of killing him. He knew that somewhere in the future, he would come to hurt because of it, but Methos could no more kill Kronos for good than Kronos could kill him. 

Love, the passion and infatuation, two (or more) hearts joined together to beat and bleed – give it to mortals. With mortals, it dies and you can move on. Dalliances with mortals are fine, Methos counsels Byron (and so many others), but do not give them more than that. Love them because they will die and be gone. 

The younger Highlander swings and Methos watches Kronos fall. Kronos, all that he was, flies to Methos and nestles inside, where he has been for longer than can be counted. On his knees, Methos weeps for what once was and what can never be again, his quickening burning around Kronos’. _Oh, my brother, my brother_ \-- no words could convey what once was, what they had been, what they will never again be. 

Love mortals, Methos has told all of his students. Alexa is dying when they meet, as all mortals are, but her death will come sooner than it should. He loves her, he embraces her – he even tries to heal her, though of course it fails. He loves her as though he will never love again. 

He will, of course. He will love mortal after mortal after mortal, until – 

_Until what?_ Kronos whispers inside. Of all the quickenings, Kronos is the clearest. It is almost like he stands at Methos’ shoulder and speaks the words aloud, one hand at Methos neck, another over his heart.

Love mortals, Methos will say if asked, because they will leave you. Loving those who stay hurts too much.


	4. the sun at our backs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the sun at our backs  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: AU during the Horsemen arc  
> Pairings: Methos/Kronos  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 130  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: any. any. A different choice.

_The sun at our backs_ , Kronos says, and three thousand years haven't changed him at all. He's still charismatic, still beautiful and terrible, still utter shit at planning. Caspian is as mad as he ever was, and Silas as gentle and loyal, and Methos alone, it seems, has noticed the years as they passed, has evolved with the times. 

_You know, of course_ , Methos says, unimpressed, _that your plan will never work_.

 _Brother_ , Kronos says, and it's four thousand years ago, in a desert with wind whipping sand into their faces, with blood drying as lightning sings. 

_Have you learned nothing in all these decades without me?_ Methos asks and Kronos' smile is still the same as it always was, as it will be for another three thousand years.


	5. I cross so many brooks in the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I cross so many brooks in the world  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov  
> Warnings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Pairings: none  
> Point of view: third  
> Wordcount: 525  
> Prompt: Highlander, Duncan and Methos and Joe, old is a comparative term

Humans would consider MacLeod old. Most of them would consider Joe old, too.

MacLeod thinks Methos is old. Amanda thinks Methos is old. Rebecca and Cassandra and Darius all thought Methos old. 

Kronos and Silas and Caspian, ancient themselves, all knew Methos was old. 

_Old_ , Methos tells Joe, _is all relative_.

He stares down into the Grand Canyon. He daydreams about the ocean and all the life she swallowed, including what had been his before he went to the desert. 

Joe will wither and die. MacLeod will try to finish a fight and lose his head. 

Methos will walk into the desert and out of the sea. 

_Old_ , he whispers, watching the sun. _Tell me what you think that means_.

…

"I've gotten old," Joe groans as he slowly stands. He's felt old since he first began wearing the prostheses, since he lost his legs. 

Mac’s on a crusade somewhere; Joe can’t follow him anymore. He’s retired from the field altogether, but he’s been given half a dozen young Watcher recruits to train up proper, and he doesn’t feel useless all that often. 

“Old,” Methos chuckles, glancing up from his beer, atop his usual stool at the bar, “is all relative.”   
Adam Pierson, according to his Chronicle, is barely 40 years old. He died while working on the Methos Chronicle, and Duncan MacLeod took him on as a student. He died at 25, falling off a ladder as he searched through hardcopy files that date back nearly a thousand years. He spent his first decade as Mac’s student, neither the best nor worst. Most Watchers who know about him don’t think he’ll last that long. 

“What do you know about it, Pierson?” Tom laughs, and he doesn’t notice the glance Methos gives him. Joe does, though, and when Methos meets his eyes, he shrugs. 

Joe is honestly shocked that he’s made it to 65. He _is_ old, as humans go, and he can get maybe twenty or thirty more years. Duncan’s almost 500, now. Amanda’s a thousand. 

“You’ve got plenty of time left, Joe,” Adam Pierson tells him, before being dragged into an argument about the Marvel movie craze with Joe’s students, and Joe listens, trying to follow the tangents as best he can. Before long, he’s hopelessly lost, puttering behind the bar as he straightens everything up. 

He goes to lift a barrel but it’s pulled out of his grasp. “I’ve got this,” Methos says softly. “Go sit down and rest.” 

Joe’s whole body is aching, the gift from Vietnam that never stops giving. “I’ve got it,” he says stubbornly, wanting nothing more than to sit and maybe work on some of his songs. 

“Joe,” Methos says. It’s an inflection that Adam Pierson hasn’t had enough time to earn, that Mac still stumbles over sometimes. It could give him away, if any of the more intuitive Watchers hear it. 

With a grumble, Joe trudges to one of the more comfortable chairs, grabbing his current notebook on the way. The kids are still arguing while Adam Pierson takes over the bartending duties, and Joe loses himself in music. 

Joe’s old, yeah, but he’s got time left.


	6. four truths only

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: four truths only  
> Fandom: Highlander  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: spoilers for the Horsemen arc  
> Pairings: a smidge of past-Methos/Kronos  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 360  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, any, bite the lightning and tell me how it tastes (lyrics from Arctic Monkeys)

Children have the same questions, all the way from the beginning to the end. He lies and no one notices; any who could tell the signs died long ago, when the sky was young and there were gods. He walked on water and knocked down mountains, and flew to a kingdom beyond the horizon when the sun set. Long ago.

He is the oldest. The first. The last, too, but he tells no one that. None can see through time like he can; all who could passed beyond the ocean and into legend, and he remembers their names. He sings the lament during storms, when his sword bites deep and the lightning returns home.

_thunder-bearer, earth-mother, fire-eater, sea-tamer, I hear you, I know you, I honor you now with this taste of lightning_

There are four always. He follows the old teachings by giving each child four true answers. His name is never one of them.

He drops a handful of dirt onto a grave with no marking. _Silas, my brother, steady as the ground beneath my feet._

He burns a body and a head, scatters the ashes into the wind. _Caspian, my brother, wild as the fire that consumes nations._

He kisses a pair of cold lips, places a head into cold hands, and sinks a coffin filled with rocks. _Kronos, my brother and my son, as dangerous as the roaring ocean, I have loved you best of all._

Lightning flashes in the sky. He sings the lament. The children could not replace the ancients he once knew, when the sun was newborn and they fashioned the world.

Four truths only, and never his name. Never his age. Never the origin of the quickening or the Game.

_thunder-bearer, earth-mother, fire-eater, sea-tamer, I hear you, I know you, I honor you now with this taste of lightning_

All quickenings, from the first to the last, want to return home to him, and he will welcome them all eventually. That is the truth from a time before memory, before life, and there is not even a legend to whisper on the wind.

"Thunder-bearer," he murmurs, staring at the sky.


	7. the day that came before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the day that came before  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: truly horrific things implied  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 420  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, if history is written by the winners, the losers aren't always bad guys - just the other guys.

_And what will you write of us, brother?_ Kronos asked once, on a bloody plain, body still healing, while Caspian ate the dead and Silas soothed the surviving horses. 

Methos had smiled and stretched up to the sky. 

.

Methos is not evil. Honestly, no matter what Cassandra cries about, throwing herself fully into her hatred, into her grief and her rage - she lives still. 

No, he is not evil. 

He is Death. Maybe that's an allegory or a metaphor or just a name he pulled on once, swinging a sword and becoming terror that stalked every land... 

Or, mayhap, once, long ago when gods roamed and magic shuddered in everything, immortals were something _more_.

.

Methos writes. Journals, diaries, chronicles, histories, text books, manuals, letters, codes... in every language he knows, he has written. In every land he has traveled to, he has written. In every era, every age, every form of writing. 

Methos is history’s oldest survivor. Methos is history’s oldest storyteller. 

… Methos is history’s oldest liar. (And that’s the truth.)

.

There was a man, long ago, who saw a rider on a pale horse. He followed a white, red, and black horse. The man fell down in terror as they passed him by. 

He wrote of what he saw that day, when he lived and so many others died. 

He wrote and it became legend. 

.

The longest time ago, Methos opened his eyes. The world had ended and begun anew, the terrible lizards giving away to tiny furred things, and Methos, as always, evolved. 

Methos is always evolving. 

Death cannot die and that’s the greatest trick of all.

.

 _And what will you write of us, brother?_ Kronos asked after another battle, this time amongst a field of corpses and slaves.

Methos gazed out over their newly-conquered territory, mountains on one side and forest on the other, at the cowering peasants and the chieftain in Caspian’s grasp, and he said, _Only the most interesting things_. 

Kronos had laughed and gone to pick his favorites of the women. 

Methos watched a man in the distance, crawling away. 

.

Methos writes because he can. He wants to. He’s some of the most well-known authors in existence and the ones no one can remember.

History is just words and how they are interpreted. History is written by the victors because nobody cares what the losers have to say. No one remembers the names of the also-rans. 

.

There is much Methos does not remember but there is more he does. 

He writes none of it.


	8. that still moment between the thunder clap and the lightning bolt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: that still moment between the thunder clap and the lightning bolt  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Diane Lockward  
> Warnings: spoilers for the Horsemen arc  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 550  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: bone

In his dreams there's a horse. She's beautifully formed, dark eyes, pale as bone. Sometimes there's a rider in a black cloak with a white crown on his head, but usually the mare runs free. Sometimes she's a unicorn, sometimes she's got wings. A few times, she has both.

He wakes with regret, leaving her behind. He misses her.

Sometimes the rider has a scythe, but most often a sword. His face is painted blue. His hair is long and dark, eyes flashing. He has a name, and so does the horse, but no one living knows either.

The most common dream involves a valley by moonlight, and a pale mare cantering along a river. The rider, in his cloak and crown, sword sheathed at his hip, calls a name that echoes into the distant mountains. The horse turns and canters to him, in a stride that has consumed nations. She nudges him with her nose and he rubs at her ears. He mounts with ease, the mare spreads wings as pale as her coat, and they fly from the valley.

He's wondered, more than once, what Dawson and MacLeod would make of his dreams. He knows that none of his brothers had such fantasies about the horses they rode.

But then, they were very young. And the mounts of red and black and white, War and Famine and Pestilence—they were mortal, the horses and the riders. His brothers had numerous mounts in the years they rode together.

And he, the pale rider, he had but one. As old as the ocean, as the sky. As old as him, his beloved steed from before horses were domesticated, broken to harness and rein.

She's waiting, he knows. Waiting till he calls her from the dream. Waiting till she can run free once more, till she can take to the sky, till he wields his sword and she slays enemies with her horn and hooves, and they are feared the world over, people screaming their names in anguish and in agony.

 _beloved_ , his pale mare whispers in the dream. _beloved, I'm waiting_.

They were and they are and they will be forever, old as the ocean and the sky, the pale horse (with wings and spiraling horn) and the pale rider (cloaked with crown and sword), and he is called Death, and his mare is called Hell, but they were and they are and they will be—

And the man legend calls Methos wakes with a sigh as a pale horse canters in his mind.

He grips his sword, gleaming and sharp, made from a material no man could know. One day, he thinks, caressing the blade and smiling as the sword bites deep, _one day, beloved, we will be free again_.

One day, the pale horse and pale rider will return, and her stride will consume nations and his sword will slaughter the world.

His younger brother proclaimed _I am the End of Time_. Death struck; Pestilence and War fell, like Famine before them. The steed and the rider, older than time, older than men, older than horses.

Death has always been. And his vacation will soon be over, this life as a legend.

 _You will fly again, beloved_ , he thinks, sheathing his sword.

And he will ride.


	9. the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity  
> Fandom: Highlander  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; the painting mentioned is _The Horse Fair_ by Rosa Bonheur; title from Helen Keller  
>  Warnings: future!fic  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 425  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, a whiter shade of pale  
> Note: I have seen _The Horse Fair_ in person. It is amazing. I want it for my own wall.

Methos has skill as a painter. Of course he does. He has eternity to master anything, so he has mastered everything. But the truly crafty always keep something back.

Adam Pierson was not an artist. A doodler, certainly, but nothing impressive. And Ben Matheson is nothing to write home about, either, but he's loved the arts all his life. So when his sponsor Duncan MacLeod calls him early one morning to invite him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, well. He could refuse, of course. But a good little boy wouldn't, and Ben is so very young, and desirous of an adult's praise and approval.

"Ben!" MacLeod calls. "Come see this one."

"And who had the clever idea to take the children to the museum today?" Ben murmurs to Mr. Dawson, hurrying to MacLeod's side with an exuberant smile.

Mr. Dawson's guffaw follows him, to [a huge painting of horses](http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/87.25). "Gorgeous," Ben breathes. MacLeod claps him on the shoulder, and Ben would say something more, but his eyes are following the lines of the horses. He wouldn't be surprised if they thundered right off the wall.

Ben has never ridden a horse. He's been poor all his life, and lived on the streets for three months, and was caught by the police, turned over to CPS, and fostered by a couple determined to see him excel. And then he was chosen by MacLeod, and sent to one of the best schools in the country, and here he is, staring at the most wonderful thing he's ever seen, in utter awe.

Ben can only marvel at the horses. They look so strong. He wonders what it'd be like to ride them, and if he had an audience beyond Mr. Dawson, he'd ask MacLeod, and hang onto every word.

Methos, though. Methos knows. He misses riding across a plain, his brothers abreast of him, out of the sun and into the horizon, the world theirs for the taking. Ben will go back to his dorm and dream of horses. He'll check out horse books from the library, watch videos online, and fall head-over-heels in love.

But Methos. Methos will go to the place where home is tonight, pull out a well-hidden sketchbook, and breathe life into his favorite pale mare again.

"Isn't it something?" MacLeod asks.

Ben nods enthusiastically. He's never seen a more amazing sight in his short, pain-filled life.

Methos… Methos is a master of horses. In his next life, he'll return to them and ride out of the sun, into the horizon.


	10. Tag, you're dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Tag, you're dead  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: Methos rambling  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 310  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, any, the only way to survive The Game even moderately sane is to play it like any other game

Right after the thought of eternity, the thing most infants didn't really understand was The Game. Anyone who wasn't a psychopath usually never contemplated killing to live - but to be immortal, it was the only way.

(Lie. But it's far too late to take it back.)

The Game is no more than hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less. The greatest teachers could teach their students that. The worst had a high turnover rate.

Methos had no teacher.

(Truth. There is always a first.)

Every immortal is a killer. Not always a murderer – self defense, after all, is not murder. One or the other – I live, you die. You live, I die. Look out for Number 1. In the end, nobody else matters.

In the end, there can be only one.

(Lie. Truth. Does it matter? Either way, that's how it ends.)

Methos explained The Game to Byron as this: _think of it as any other game. There is a winner and a loser, and the winner must be you. To think of it as life and death, as kill or be killed… an eternity of that, isn't an eternity you'd want, unless you were mad_. He paused to look at Byron and they both laughed.

(Oh, Byron, my child. One day, you will be avenged.)

Methos' students always survive their first challenge, whether they issue it or not. If they are very good, there is no final challenge, not until Methos draws his sword against them.

One day, at the end of The Game, all of his children will come home to him.

(The ultimate truth: in the end, the last shall be the first.)

Hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less.

Draw your sword and let's dance.


	11. I close my eyes and suck you in like fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I close my eyes and suck you in like fire  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton  
> Warnings: goes AU during season 3; the Horsemen being the Horsemen  
> Pairings: Methos/Kronos  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 640  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, _would you be an outlaw for my love?_

Every two hundred years since he escaped the well Methos so kindly trapped him in, Kronos tracks down each of his brothers. Just to see if they're still alive. He doesn't love them or anything like that; but they are _his_ , as they have always been. Even Methos. 

Especially Methos. Once he'd worked past the anger, Kronos realized that by leaving him alive, Methos had proven that he was still Kronos', despite wanting to leave. 

They had been amazing, the four of them together. Powerful. Unstoppable, save by each other. He knows that Silas and Caspian never realized how truly dangerous Methos was, with his tricks and his cleverness. Kronos has slaughtered wisemen and torn down kingdoms - never has he found another who could equal Methos. 

And so he checks in, every two hundred years. Eventually, he knows that Methos will grow to miss it too much, the horse and the sword, how they dealt destruction on wherever they liked, for whatever reason. Civilizations rise and fall as years pass, and Methos tries so many things, but Kronos remembers the man who guided him out of the desert, the man who taught him to fight and to kill, the man who named him for a god. 

_Do you know why I gave you this name?_ Methos had asked. _Or why I chose mine?_

He had not known. With a smile, Methos had said, _You will cut the world to pieces, boy_. And he had laughed, standing tall and bare beneath the sun, when he added, _And I am no more than a legend_. 

It was a long time before Kronos understood the joke. He laughs to himself, now, in this civilized age where Methos pulls on the mask of a researcher, unassuming and weak, and the mortals allow him into their innermost sanctum.

Caspian and Silas are safe; no one knows what they once were. Kronos himself has lost his mortal watcher for the moment, as he always does when he seeks out Methos. And not one of those mortals knows what is sleeping inside young Adam Pierson. 

Kronos wants back what once was his, and he knows he must go about this carefully. He is still plotting when one of the mortals is murdered by Kalas and the honorable, annoying Highlander is pointed towards Methos, still masked, which just will not do. 

The moment Kronos steps into range, he knows that Methos will either run or fight, so he moves swiftly. He meets Methos at the hidden door he had known Methos must've installed and shoots him in the heart. 

Neither Kalas nor the Highlander will have Methos. He has belonged to Kronos for four thousand years, as Kronos has belonged to him. 

What he must do now is think like Methos. What is the best way to get what he wants? What is the cleverest way to awaken the monster sleeping inside pale skin and fragile bones? 

When Methos wakes, Kronos is kneeling before him, head bowed. "Once," he says in the first language he ever spoke, "you were my teacher." 

"I was," Methos replies warily, the words falling easily off his tongue in a language long dead. 

Kronos does not look up. "Teach me again," he implores. "The world has changed around me. I am lost." 

Not all of it is a lie. Not even most of it. This is a new age, one Methos has (as always) mastered. Adaptation is not Kronos' gift. 

Methos places a hand to the back of Kronos' head. "I know what you are trying, brother," he murmurs. "Rise." 

Slowly, carefully, Kronos stands to his full height. The monster is not awakened, not yet. But there is a satisfied smile on Methos' face and he pulls Kronos in close for a kiss neither has felt in three thousand years.


	12. I share creation, Kings can do no more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I share creation, Kings can do no more  
> Fandom: Highlander  
> Disclaimer: title from a proverb  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: none  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 185  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, Methos + Richie, compared to him he's a newborn infant

Richie is young, and he has young problems. Methos sits at the bar and listens to the brat rant at Joe about the girl who won't take his calls and the movie he wanted to see that isn't at theaters anymore and what a harsh taskmaster Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is.

Joe listens and then he gives the kid a bit of tough love, and Richie is either soothed or he isn't.

Adam Pierson has young problems, too. He lost his job, and he can't contact that maiden aunt of his and he has to learn to fight (and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod _is_ a harsh taskmaster, but he's nowhere near as harsh as Time). Adam doesn't complain about his problems, though. Adam laughs about Richie's, because Adam is so young he doesn't yet understand.

Methos knows that Richie will never outgrow his young problems. There's almost no way the kid will live past his first decade. Maybe if Methos took him on… but Methos won't. He has no interest in a student this century, so that's just too bad for Richie.


	13. pragmatism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: pragmatism  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: discussion of cold-blooded murder  
> Pairings: implied Methos/Duncan  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 220  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, Methos/Duncan, provoked

Methos does not have friends. He has students, acquaintances, companions; once, he had brothers. But friends... no. There is no one he trusts, no matter what lies he tells. 

Duncan is a good man. Perhaps, one of the best men Methos has ever known.

There is much Methos would do to ensure Duncan’s survival. He would kill. He would suffer. 

… he would not die. No. There is no one, in any life, that Methos would die for. And if the choice ever comes to Duncan or life… 

Well. 

Methos watches Duncan, laughs with him, offers sarcastic advice, and plans his death. 

Methos does not have friends. At any moment, anyone could turn on him – or he might decide it is more prudent to cut his losses and run rather than leave at his back a single solitary soul who might know his weaknesses. 

There is much Methos would do for Duncan. He dearly cares for the boy. He has dearly cared for thousands over the long span of his life. 

Many of them, time or war killed. But many… 

Methos survives, no matter the cost. That is the secret of his longevity. There is no price too high when it comes to his life. There is no one he cannot or will not kill. 

He watches Duncan and plans.


	14. Until the moss had reached our lips and covered up our names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Until the moss had reached our lips and covered up our names  
> Fandom: Highlander  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; quotes from "Comes a Horseman"; title from Dickinson  
> Warnings: post-series  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 235  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, I've been through a thousand yesterdays / not every step I can retrace

His journals are a treasure-trove for the children grasping with nervous fingers, guessing at what once was. If anyone could find them, could read them - five thousand years of knowledge, of history. Longer even, but that is when writing started.

(There was writing before that, of course. Nothing any of today's children would recognize, but writing nonetheless.)

Ask him a question; he'll tell a lie. Call him a liar; he'll smile.

_You know what I was? Death. Death on a horse._

The history books are full of his exploits. Can he be trusted? Of course not. Is he a killer? _Yes. Oh, yes. Is that what you want to hear?_

History was. His story is. Call him the first, the oldest, possibly the greatest - he survives. Pyramids crumble and mountains erode, and he was there before them, during them, after them... thousands of years. Longer. Five thousand and more still.

Call him a liar. Call him a god. Both and neither and always.

History remembers him with a thousand names. He has walked a thousand roads, a thousand times, five thousand years.

He is older than writing. Older than fire. Older than any language the children, grasping with nervous fingers, would understand.

( _How old are you?_ one such child asks, dear honorable Duncan MacLeod.

 _Five thousand_ , he says. _That's the first I remember_.

Old, he thinks. Child, you don't know the meaning of the word.)


	15. beyond the eastern hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: beyond the eastern hills  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: Violence/death/cannibalism  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 520  
> Point of view: first  
> Prompt: any. any. salt the earth

There existed once a people beyond the eastern hills. Which land? It matters not. That is not the point - listen. Be silent and listen. Do you understand?

Good. 

As I said, they lived beyond the eastern hills. They were proud. Rightly so, for there were none better with horses, and travelers came from far and wide to trade for their gemstones, for their weapons. Horses they trained had no equal. They were rich and content, and so very proud. They were sure they were the best in all the world. 

The world, as I am sure you are aware, child, is quite the large place. Stories traveled of the people beyond the eastern hills, who dared proclaim themselves the mightiest. It caught attention. 

Once, there were those who would have said it caught the attention of gods. Perhaps they were gods; perhaps they were not. But they wore the mantle of god-kings, who destroyed far more lands than they ever ruled. You know the names? Say them. 

Yes… Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death. The people beyond the eastern hills claimed they had no peers and no betters, and where does pride go? 

Of course, it goes before a fall. 

Sometimes, when the gods of destruction rained down their fury from horseback, they left survivors. Some they took as slaves, some they left to further the legend. 

The people beyond the eastern hills had so survivors at all. Not the oldest of the wisewomen, not the youngest babe in arms. They had proclaimed themselves better than the gods and the gods struck them down for the daring of it. 

War took many of the weapons, for there were none finer. Famine butchered the corpses for meat. Pestilence roamed his way through the houses and shops, seeking bright gems purely because they were beautiful. And Death… Death watched the horses, yet unbroken, panicking at the smell of blood. 

“See something you like, brother?” Pestilence asked him. 

“That one,” Death said, pointing at the only completely white horse in the pasture. 

“Then that you shall have,” Pestilence told him. 

When they left, animals had already begun feeding. The city burned. The next travelers spread the story, of the people beyond the eastern hills. They said the city was cursed – spirits wandered there, never at rest, screaming and crying for mercy. Families never reunited for no rites were said. Word spread of the gods’ anger. 

Who were they, the people beyond the eastern hills? Ah, that is the point, you see. There is no record of them anywhere. They never existed, did they? They are struck from history. The weapons were destroyed long ago. The gems are lost. The bones have long turned to dust. That lovely pale mare – perhaps she bred and bore foals, who bred and bore foals. Maybe that is the only thing left of the people beyond the eastern hills. 

Do you understand, child? You asked the mark I left on the world. I _am_ history itself, and I choose who is remembered and who is forgotten. Leave me in peace now, and I might remember you.


	16. I can see from here where I'll be standing at the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: I can see from here where I'll be standing at the end  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: kinda parent/child  
> Pairings: Methos/Kronos  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 670  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, Methos/Any, 'Father Figure' (song by George Michael)

Methos has had over five hundred children. Most of them came with women, as he lived with or married widows (or equivalents thereof before the invention of weddings), but some he found and kept for various reasons.

Kronos had been one. Treated as a son, then brother, then lover—and as Kronos' personality exploded, Methos stepped back and let him take the reins, as it were. Then Kronos found Caspian and saw what a terrifying pet he could be. To even things out, Methos adopted Silas. If Silas hadn't been so quiet (except during a raid), Kronos would have engineered an accident.

He'd always been possessive, and thought of Methos as his. His father, his brother, his lover.

Methos does not like being owned. Kronos knew that, of course.

Kronos was both his brightest triumph and greatest failure, and Methos _could_ imagine delivering the final blow. Take the boy's life, the boy he had saved and raised and loved for almost four thousand years. The boy to whom he had given the world. They were gods, once. Death and Pestilence, takers of life. Heralds of the end for three continents—all the world known, at that time. Men such as them had come and gone, but all others died and became dust.

Not so, them—Methos and Kronos, legends and terrors, and he should have killed the boy. But he did not want to. Had never wanted to. If he wanted Kronos dead, he would have taken his head instead of throwing him down a well.

But MacLeod… if anyone but Methos had to kill Kronos, MacLeod was best.

MacLeod was not a son. Surely not a brother. But he could be a lover, someday. After Methos had worked through MacLeod killing Kronos.

Kronos. He'd been such a bright boy, all those years ago. Methos had other children after him, but none had ever been his equal. None had ever been so strong.

The one lesson he never mastered was adaptability. He could fake it, for a time. Very well, in fact. But he hadn't truly changed—he still wanted to rule the world, like the gods they had once been. And when he told Methos his plan, when he asked Methos to make it workable… _ah, my beautiful boy_ , Methos had thought. _beloved, the world has changed since we rode with the sun at our backs._

It is a father's duty to teach his children to survive. At whatever cost. And when they will only destroy themselves or others… a father must take responsibility and do what he can.

Before that final battle with MacLeod, Methos had let Kronos take him one last time, and he had kissed Kronos' forehead, and watching the boy walk away, he had thought, _my beautiful boy, I will miss your fire._

And as he killed Silas, as MacLeod killed Kronos, as Kronos' quickening rushed for Methos and he dropped his sword to embrace his heart's child, he thought, _beloved, you have always been my favorite._

And he felt Kronos in his mind, in his soul, and the boy replied, _now we are truly together, until the end of time_.

Methos has had many children over the millennia. He outlived them all, even the immortal ones. None has ever been his equal, and a boy he found and raised almost four thousand years ago is the closest anyone has ever come.

Kronos called himself the End of Time. In his soul, Methos cradled the boy's quickening and hummed a soft lullaby. _we lived and we grew stronger, beloved,_ Methos murmured. _we will fight again another day, you and I, together._

MacLeod will never understand, of course. He even had Richie, and he will still never comprehend. Richie had been a good boy, and he might have one day been a good man. But all of the children today are so impatient, so impetuous. He cannot see many living to be his age.

_Ah, Kronos… we could have mastered the stars, my beautiful boy, if only you had learned._

Instead he stares up at the night sky, far from any town, and he remembers.


	17. There are many names in history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: There are many names in history  
> Fandom: Highlander  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: no capital letters  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 190  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: 
> 
> "History repeats itself. Somebody says this.  
> History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,  
> over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.  
> History is a little man in a brown suit  
> trying to define a room he is outside of.  
> I know history. There are many names in history  
> but none of them are ours."
> 
> \---Little Beast, Richard Siken

he has walked through this book before, he knows this, he has been here and felt it and survived.

he always survives. a bit broken, shattered and torn, worn and tattered, but he survives and he walks on.

he has walked through this book before, salt and iron, blood and bone, tears and sweat and sunlight, sunlight, calm before the storm and clear skies after.

they ask him for the story, for the lesson, for what he has earned in the surviving.

he could tell them a thousand different things, a million, a different parable for every day of five thousand—longer, oh so much longer—years, for every name he's worn, every man woman child he's killed, every horse—pale as moonlight, as snow, as bone—he's ridden, every lie and truth he's told.

he's walked this road before. there is nowhere he hasn't been, nothing he hasn't done, and they ask his name, his story, want their piece of the myth.

it will not matter what he says. so he says everything, sheaths his sword, pats his pale horse, and walks into the sun.

he’ll be back, of course.


	18. Don't choose to live by the book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Don't choose to live by the book  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: AU during season 5  
> Pairings: Kronos/Methos  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 370  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: any, any,
> 
> I am your darkest side the one you keep in shadows too far to hide  
> Deep in your heart you can't deny  
> All of your fears keeping me alive  
> Waiting here for you to arrive  
> Don't choose to live by the book  
> Let's live by the hook  
> ("Live by the Hook" from Finding Neverland)

"Brother," Kronos says, wiping the blood off the knife and onto Methos' shirt, "are you yet tired of hiding?" 

"That's one of a thousand differences, _brother_ ," Methos retorts, stretching out his arms and arching his back, trying to shake off the tremors that linger after dying. 

"What, that you hide and I refuse to?" Kronos demands, letting the knife fall. Methos doesn't watch it; it's always best to keep eyes on Kronos. "I know you've missed it, Methos!" 

"The sand that got everywhere no matter what?" Methos says. "The neverending aches, the blood and viscera, the fear that fled before us and trailed after us? What's not to miss?" 

Kronos glares at him. "For three thousand years, I have waited. Five hundred them were at the bottom of a well, dying of starvation and thirst over and over and over again." 

Methos had not felt guilt when he trapped Kronos; he still does not feel it, even as Kronos says, "But I forgave you for that centuries ago. Do you know why?" 

Methos slumps back onto the table, resting his face in his hands. "Because I left you alive instead of taking your head," he murmurs. 

Kronos sounds triumphant when he says, "Yes, brother. Because you knew, even then, that one day I would come for you. Because you are mine." 

Sighing, Methos looks up at him. "And are you mine, Kronos?" 

"Of course I am." The words are certain, and Methos does not shy away when Kronos reaches for him. "I have been yours since you led me out of the desert to the ocean, since you taught me to ride horses, since we tamed the lightning together to become gods." His fingers are gentle as he traces along Methos' jaw, his lips. "Become a god with me again," he pleads. "I need you." 

"The world has changed," Methos says, already knowing his answer. He knew it when he left Kronos alive, three thousand years ago. 

"Guide me," Kronos says, kneeling between Methos' legs and gazing up at him, as he did in the desert when he was young. 

The world has changed, yes, and Methos too. But he reaches to caress Kronos' cheek and he answers, "Always."


	19. watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: watching  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: pre-series  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 215  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander:the series, Methos, Four Horsemen

"Do you think they were real?" Melissa asks Adam, once Dr. Salzer has been called away to a meeting with the other Head Researchers. "I mean, four immortals who were able to ignore the game for so many centuries?" She shakes her head. "It sounds like a fairy tale." 

Adam laughs. "Well, whether they existed or not," he says, tapping the newly-discovered supposed journal of Methos, the supposed oldest immortal of all, who formed a brotherhood with three other immortals, "looking for them will keep me happily employed." 

Melissa laughs at that, too. She can't wait to be assigned an immortal, to go out and document, to see a part of living history, to watch how her immortal evolves. It's far more exciting than what her parents had planned for her, and she'll always be grateful to Farida for inviting her into order. 

But Adam? He's definitely not built to be an active Watcher. He's too soft, too quiet. He’d get caught too easily. “Well, I hope you find some proof,” she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand. 

He’s charming, and attractive in an odd sort of way, and when he smiles at her, she can see all his potential. “Thank you,” he says, a hint of laughter in the words.


	20. survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: survivor  
> Disclaimer: not my characters (except for the dead guy)  
> Warnings: violence, death  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 285  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Highlander, Methos, He doesn't have to have lived 5000 years to know how this conversation is going to go.
> 
> Note: Did Duncan ever kill mortals in the show? I honestly have no idea and google didn't help.

Duncan blinks at him and then down at the mortal who is currently missing a head, phone still recording. Methos scoops up the phone; thankfully, it was just recording to the memory card and not uploading to the internet. 

Finally, Duncan regains his voice to shout, "Methos!" 

"Yes?" Methos asks, deleting the video and pocketing the phone. He crouches to rifle through the man's clothes, taking his wallet and his watch. 

He freezes when he feels Duncan's blade on the back of his neck. "Methos, he was mortal," Duncan growls. 

"You didn't even know he was there," Methos says reprovingly. “He filmed your duel with Henders. Shooting him would’ve been too loud and I left my knife in my other coat.” 

Lie. The hand Duncan can’t see has worked it from the sheath. 

Methos has allowed Duncan to put a sword at his neck before, but always on his terms, whatever the child thought. In his wilder days, Methos had killed for less. He always was rash when he was younger.

“Will you kill me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?” he asks, still crouched beside the corpse. _As you killed my student_ , he doesn’t say. He wonders if Duncan hears it anyway.

“No,” Duncan says, voice trembling. He pulls away the sword and Methos dives across the body, rolling to his feet to face Duncan. 

“I’ll take my leave,” Methos tells him. “I will be stopping in to say goodbye to Joe.” 

Duncan nods, his hand white around the hilt. 

Methos does not warn him that the next time he raises a sword to Methos, it will be his final act; if he hasn’t realized that for himself, he’s even more foolish than Methos believes.


	21. in remembrance (as a reminder)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: in remembrance (as a reminder)  
> Disclaimer: not my characters  
> Warnings: references to violence/death/rape  
> Pairings: Kronos/Methos   
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 230  
> Point of view: third

_Will you tell our story, brother?_ Kronos asked, watching Methos fill the scroll. He was bare, skill still damp from their shared bath in the lake. A platter of meat rested next to his elbow.

Methos had been ignoring the heat of his gaze since they returned from their bath, determined to record the raid they’d conducted that morning. 

_You will survive us all, I believe,_ Kronos continued softly. 

One of the slaves screamed, beyond their tent; Caspian’s cackle filled the air. Silas’ voice rumbled from where he soothed the horses.

Methos did not react to any of it, dipping the quill in the inkpot. He heard it all, as he heard everything, and he knew that Kronos had the right of it.

 _Come to me,_ Kronos said, and when Methos gently worked the stopper into the inkpot, Kronos smiled up at him. _I alone you obey_ , he murmured, something melancholy in the words.

 _Do I?_ Methos asked as he carefully set the scroll to the side.

Kronos laughed, holding his hand out to his brother.

Only later, long into the future, would Methos realize that though he’d been planning his escape from Kronos’ violent attack on the world, Kronos had known. 

_I have told our story, brother,_ Methos said, pouring a glass of wine onto the dirt. _I will ensure history remembers us, we four, and the way we rode._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fic DVD Commentaries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795196) by [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf)




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